


There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.

by MiserableLie95



Category: Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 03:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12522428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiserableLie95/pseuds/MiserableLie95
Summary: "For the first time in my life the future is more important than the past."





	There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.

-Autumn, 1982. 

Johnny put down the pen that he’d been chewing on for the better part of the last half hour, trying to figure out chord progressions to the new song him and Morrissey were working on. He leaned over his guitar and looked at his singer, his head bent over a notebook. If Johnny squinted a bit, he reckoned he could make out the words. But what the hell would that mean to him? He didn’t really know him yet, he couldn’t claim to understand him, or what the words stood for. 

He had heard Morrissey mention in passing that he was still waiting for his life to begin, twenty-three years into it and having found nothing worth keeping from the life he had led before they met. He didn’t talk about his childhood. He didn’t talk about his mates, his parents, girlfriends or boyfriends, the jobs he’d taken on after finishing school. He let it all fall into the past. He hadn’t considered the thought that he’d even have a future until they’d met just a few months previously. 

It was Morrissey’s instinct to shield himself, to not give up too much. In stark contrast, Johnny had told him everything about himself and all at once during their first few meetings. They had talked for hours about records, about the state of current music, about the group they had formed, and a very long and very specific list of things they wanted to accomplish with their respective roles in the group. The contents of Johnny’s heart poured out with it all, no details withheld. They had recorded their first demo, played their first gig, and solidified their lineup. They were sure of themselves, and of their ideas. It was Johnny’s belief, as he put down his guitar, that in order to make the songwriting partnership as fruitful and cohesive as possible, he’d have to get inside Morrissey’s head, despite how hard the singer tried to keep everyone at arms length from him. 

“Hey, let’s give it a rest,” Johnny said. “D’you wanna go down for a pint?” 

Morrissey looked up, startled out of his thoughts by the sound of Johnny’s voice. The guitarists’ flawless strumming had served as a soothing background noise, filtering out the static in his perpetually-whirling mind. He hadn’t noticed when Johnny stopped playing. Johnny’s bright and careless disposition made him embarrassed of his long-suffering social instincts, and he looked up only for a moment before returning his gaze to his notebook shyly. “I’m afraid I haven’t got much money to spare for the pubs,” Morrissey said, his face burning. 

“Fuck, who does?” Johnny snorted. “It’s no bother, I’m mates with the barman around the corner from the shop… Come on. It’s bound to be deserted.” He put his guitar away and looked around for his jacket, an unlit cigarette between his lips. 

Morrissey stood wearily to join him, storing his notebook and pen in one of the pockets of his overcoat. Johnny clapped him on the shoulder and chattered on the whole way to the pub, going on a mile a minute. He’d been accused a great number of times of being a loudmouth, but in reality he was full of so much passion and pure exuberance, and not enough places to outlet it, or people to talk to about it. Morrissey understood it perfectly, and he listened carefully to everything that Johnny had to say as a result. It was true that Johnny might have been saying it louder, but they went back and forth with their ideas and ambitions with an equal level of ferocity. It had to happen. There were no more alternatives. 

In a quiet corner of the pub with their lagers on the house they spoke for hours on anything that came to mind, unrelenting despite the drinks and the passage of time. 

“I do feel as though I exist apart, as though I do not belong to the crowd of acceptable, functional people,” Morrissey said. “I can’t help it. I know what it is that would give meaning to my existence, why should I go on as a sales clerk or a window-washer with this urge to create demanding my every thought? How could I?” His voice broke with exasperation, but he was too determined to be embarrassed. There was so much he wanted to tell Johnny, but it was exceedingly difficult for him to communicate the thoughts and ideas that had been the one bright spot in recent years of his life. 

“What’re you staring at me for?” Morrissey asked quietly. He was forever worried he’d said too much, gone on about the wrong things, while Johnny seemed to be at ease with him. 

“I’m not staring, I’m listening,” Johnny laughed, quickly looking down into his drink. He was guilty of staring, he knew, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I just couldn’t imagine doing anything else either,” Johnny told him. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of Morrissey, but Morrissey didn’t realize it most of the time how his eyes followed him, watched the way he wheedled his words into his songs, noticed how much of him he put into it. There was nothing else for Morrissey. He could see that. Johnny was just beginning to understand how much responsibility that put on him for getting Morrissey through this; out of his mother’s house, out of the long nights dreaming of the life he wanted to lead, out of the sickening pattern of trying and failing to start groups. There would be no option but to succeed, and Johnny knew in that moment that they would. They were adamant about how their art and their lives would be. 

Morrissey nodded in response, spinning his empty pint glass in his hand. He could see the same need in Johnny, but the difference was that Johnny would’ve made it anywhere, and with anyone. He was young, he would not do without. Especially not with that vital element about him, not just the raw talent of a gifted musician, but the determination to do anything it took. It was only the opportunity to write songs with Johnny; so obviously brilliant, so open and passionate and unflinching, that he inspired Morrissey to dig deep within himself to try to reach the level that Johnny was already on at the age of nineteen. 

“D’you want another round?” Johnny asked. 

“Yes,” Morrissey agreed.

He would take hold of any reason to stay there, to spend more time with him. Johnny grinned and called over to the barman, collecting their empty glasses to be refilled. Morrissey watched him go, and took a deep breath. He felt buoyant with Johnny, as the voice in the back of his mind reprimanded him to not get used to it. He was enamored with Johnny, enamored beyond words and increasing with every meeting. As an artist and as a man, his life was coming together with a sense of completeness for the first time. It was all he could think of as Johnny returned with their drinks, heavy stuff, not for the faint of heart. 

His passion, his hopefulness, his youth, the painstaking care that went into every song, every conversation about what the future would hold. Morrissey may have been in love within minutes, even the image of Johnny was everything he could have wanted. Morrissey knew, from listening to Johnny talk about growing up in Wythenshawe, that life had not been sunshine and roses for him. He understood depression, the desolation of inner city Manchester, the pain of wanting so much and not being able to reach it. But yet, Johnny managed to live without being dragged down by such things. The thrill of living, the joy of being young was not lost on him. Was anyone ever as young as he was? As full of life, as steadfast in their desires and ambitions? Johnny knew exactly who he was. It gave Morrissey a sort of nostalgia in reverse, watching him. Everything fundamental about the guitarist said it better than he ever could; the clothes, the attitude, the confidence. When the years passed, he would never have to look back and forgive himself for what he didn’t become. 

Morrissey had not found the same joys as Johnny; in friendship, in life, nor in love. He wanted to no longer be reminded of the things he had never done, and have a chance to live again, as though another life was beginning for him with Johnny. He could not forget the past twenty odd years, but for the first time, the thought of his future did not fill him with a grim sense of dread. He drank to the future that they were creating, leaning in close to the man who was trying his hardest to make it possible. 

They left the pub before the small hours came on, and Johnny proposed they walked for a while through the city before departing towards their respective homes. He saw it as his chance to get closer to Morrissey, to gain insight to how his mind worked, what laid inside his heart. Under the guise of five or six pints, he felt brave enough to ask Morrissey exactly what had been on his mind. 

“Are you seeing anyone?” Johnny asked, coughing through his hesitation. “Dating anyone, I mean.” 

“Are you concerned that my focus on the group might be compromised?” Morrissey joked. “And who will tell Angie?” 

“I couldn’t bear to fight for your attention,” Johnny grinned. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket against the brisk autumn air, listening to the sound of their footsteps against the pavement. 

“Well to answer your very nosy inquiry- no,” Morrissey said evenly. “Not for quite some time.” 

“Not with that Linder you said you used to stay with?” 

“No.“ 

“The way you talk about her, I just thought-“

“To be totally honest, it’s been almost the furthest thing from my mind in recent years. I could hardly write for a while, let alone have a healthy relationship with someone… And being away from it all for long enough; love, sex, relationships, all of that, it makes you step back and think twice about how much time and effort and heartache must occur when you get into it with someone… And y’know, I discovered that I can’t really be bothered to get into it. I don’t think I could bear it.” 

“Christ, that’s grim,” Johnny remarked. “Have you ever thought that you’ve just not met anyone worth the trouble?” 

“Perhaps that’s part of it… I’ve met people, of course, but it wasn’t what I’d term a meaningful connection. I can blame myself most of the time, because in some sadistic way, I pined after someone who would never be attracted to me, someone who things would never work out with. When I was younger I occasionally found myself with someone who wanted something from me for some unfathomable reason; and I went through with things because it was expected of me. When I look back at it, I don’t recognize myself. The things I said, the things I did… It wasn’t really me, you know? I felt nothing for them. I was trying to be someone else for the sake of going along with what that person wanted.” 

“I find it hard to believe there’s a person who would never be attracted to you,” Johnny said. “You’re almost painfully handsome, in that classic way.” 

“Is that all you got out of that?” Morrissey laughed. 

“It struck me as particularly odd,” Johnny said. 

“Nothing else you found odd?”

“Not at all,” Johnny smiled. 

“Well, then I’ll thank you for the compliment,” Morrissey said, with valiant composure. 

Johnny’s laughter broke the silence of the cold night, and he led Morrissey down another winding alley, somewhere Morrissey thought he’d never been before despite the innumerable, unending walks he had taken around the city to give some substance to his empty days. 

“Is that the way you want to live?” Johnny asked softly. 

Morrissey paused, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the cracked pavement. “I’ve found it’s possible to live without love, but it’s certainly not ideal,” he replied. “I’m not resigned to it, but I must say that at this point I don’t see it changing anytime soon. I can’t wake up one day and miraculously turn into someone else. I couldn’t possibly pretend to feel something that I don’t just for the sake of not being alone.”

“You don’t think you’ll ever find someone that things feel right with?” 

“I haven’t in twenty-three years,” Morrissey said slowly. “I’m afraid I’ve come to accept the fact that it doesn’t happen for everyone.” 

“I don’t believe it,” Johnny told him. He gripped Morrissey’s arm, his eyes bright and earnest. Morrissey felt like his heart was caught in his throat, the way he was looking at him. “It will feel right with someone, somewhere. I really believe that. Things are changing for you - for both of us.” 

“What on earth does that mean?” Morrissey inquired. 

“Maybe life will begin again,” Johnny said. 

“How will I know when it does?” 

“I’ll tell you,” Johnny reasoned. “I’ll have ten guitars, a bunch of cars, a big house somewhere. And you’ll be right there with me, having discovered that being amongst the living isn’t so bad.” 

“Maybe you’ll be right,” Morrissey smiled sardonically. 

“Just wait. This is the moment,” Johnny said. 

Morrissey opened his mouth to say something to the contrary, unable to stop himself, to take things as they were and possibly put some faith in the future Johnny was so wholeheartedly offering him. But when he looked down at the guitarist again, there was something soft in Johnny’s eyes, and his words died in his throat. In another moment Johnny was stepping closer to him, one hand cradling the back of his head as Johnny’s lips pressed against his own. A soft sound of surprise escaped Morrissey’s mouth, and Johnny leaned back, looking up at his singer. His fingers moved through the short hair on the back of Morrissey’s head. Morrissey was trembling with shock, and trying not to visibly show it as Johnny’s face remained inches away from his own.

“Don’t you feel anything?” Johnny asked. 

“Oh. I don’t know,” Morrissey murmured.

His eyes were wide in surprise, endearing and innocent. He looked away from Johnny’s bright gaze, color rising to his cheeks. He was embarrassed, he didn’t think he could look at Johnny again. He had been so far from relationships and this sort of intimacy for so long, he couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t foreign to him, that it didn’t scare him. At a moment when his heart should have been leaping at the prospect of Johnny being attracted to him, he felt dead sober, overcome with fear. It wasn’t just a fear of being rusty from disuse, but a question of whether or not he could handle a glimmer of hope for his private life after so much rejection and so many hangups in the past, if he even knew how to be intimate with anyone anymore. 

On top of everything else, the question that also preoccupied him was what could have possibly propelled Johnny to kiss him. Him, stammering with ineptitude, unsightly and disagreeable. The two of them were almost exact opposites in their lifestyles, and he had spent much of the few months of their knowing each other trying to glean an insight to how guitarists managed such unyielding spirit and sense of worth; always running around somewhere with a great knowledge of where to go and what to do, able to find familiar faces everywhere he looked. 

He was in awe of Johnny for not only his obvious talent, but also for the resoluteness in which he went after the life that he was so determined to lead. He was the type of man who would succeed, there was no other way for him, and Morrissey was in complete awe of everything about him. Morrissey could not recall a single instant in which someone he actually admired had shown romantic or physical interest in him, and his heart hammered in his chest as he allowed himself to look at Johnny again, whose bright expression had dropped a bit, as Morrissey was certainly not reacting as though he had wanted to be kissed. 

Before Johnny could go too far in kicking himself for indulging his impulsive behavior, Morrissey took a breath and met Johnny’s eyes again, trying to ward off nervousness. “No, I think I did feeling something,” Morrissey said. “But you’ll have to give me another chance to make sure.” 

Johnny smiled and kissed him again, and Morrissey wrapped his arms around him this time, pulling him in closer. Johnny could feel the heat of his flushed cheeks against his face, and his stomach dropped with arousal. So his singer blushed when he was kissed. How was it possible for him to find the older man any more endearing? Johnny went slowly, setting the pace for his partner, and found himself dying for more despite not wanting to overwhelm him. He was wonderful to kiss, his lips were soft, he was perfectly receptive to every moment in which Johnny ramped up the pace a bit, and let out these lovely little gasps and sighs, clutching onto Johnny tightly. Morrissey could feel Johnny shivering against him and felt like he might’ve been shaking himself, but he didn’t feel cold at all. In fact, he felt as though it may have actually been possible that his life was starting again, in the most beautiful way. 

The memory of the failures in the last twenty-three years, in life and in love, had hurt like a knife. He had not experienced life the way that he had once imagined to. He was just now beginning a career in music after a number of painful and brief dead-end jobs, his relationships had all been unfulfilling, every previous sexual encounter had felt unsuccessful- even if the target had been reached. He was exhausted of being forever at the starting point, having gone nowhere in life thus far, never having experienced the joy of being young, nor the thrill of living. But Johnny was trying. Johnny wanted to show him all of the things he had been missing, and despite the voice in the back of his head that insisted he would fail in this too, Morrissey made the decision to accept whatever the life him and Johnny were starting together as songwriters and partners would offer him. 

The fact that they were stood in an alleyway down some strange road at the edge of the city and could possibly be seen by some drunken brutes passing by vaguely occurred to Morrissey as Johnny’s calloused fingers traced his jawline, though he couldn’t convince himself to stop. At that moment the thought of not being able to do this again, of it being a one time thing, scared him more than the prospect of being discovered, though the sound of a car going by, in all likelihood probably several streets away and with no chance of spotting them, made the two of them jump apart from each other. 

Morrissey smiled, his head dropping shyly, and Johnny listened hard for a moment, and then kissed him again with a husky chuckle. He was coming to understand his effect on the older man, and was almost in awe of himself, that he was the one who could kiss Morrissey, give him a glimpse of what it was like to be with someone he was attracted to and admired. He allowed himself to trace his tongue along Morrissey’s lower lip, wanting to tease him a bit, and Morrissey moaned, alight with longing. He put his hands on Johnny’s shoulders and pressed him against the side of the building they were stood next to, kissing him hard, lips and tongues colliding in a moment without hesitancy, their bodies to coming together flush until Morrissey made himself move away. 

Johnny breathed in the crisp autumn air deeply, feeling hot all over for a moment. If it were anyone else, Johnny would’ve taken them home, had a quick fuck and got on with things, but Morrissey wasn’t anyone else- and he wouldn’t dare rush him into anything. It became more of a problem of stopping himself from going too far in his earnestness, but also not making Morrissey feel unwanted. Johnny reached up and brushed his fingers through Morrissey’s hair, and kissed him on the cheek. 

“I’m afraid we might miss the last bus if we stand here any longer, but I don’t know if I’d really mind,” Johnny said. 

“No, of course,” Morrissey said quickly. He suddenly burned with shame, thinking he had gone too far with that last kiss, that Johnny hadn’t been expecting him to put so much passion into it. He looked down and smoothed his hand over his hair, wondering if he appeared as desperate as he felt, but his thoughts were interrupted when Johnny caught his hand in his own, squeezing his fingers. 

“I can walk you to your stop, it’s on the way for me,” Johnny told him. 

“Okay,” Morrissey agreed. 

When they got out onto the main road again Morrissey let go of Johnny’s hand, knowing that they couldn’t very well go down the road as two men holding hands in 1982 without physical and verbal abuse. He had been quick to bury his hands in his coat pockets, not wanting Johnny to feel like he had to hold his hand, and also not wanting to have been the one whose hand was let go of. It all seemed very complicated, much more than it needed to be, but Johnny didn’t seem to mind it. He stood for a moment with Morrissey at his bus stop, squinting down the road for the approaching bus. There was no one else around still, the middle of the night on a cold weekday in Manchester, and Johnny briefly kissed him goodnight, promising that he’d call the next day before he went off to his own bus stop a couple of blocks away. 

On the bus ride home, when it finally did arrive, Morrissey sat on the second floor by himself and leaned his head against the window, his eyes wide as they rolled on towards Stretford. He thought about Johnny, on his way to the attic flat he rented in a strange house in Bowdon, and wondered if the guitarist felt as he did; as though the two of them were teetering on the precipice of something much bigger than he could imagine. He was terrified, if he was honest, of how badly he wanted it to happen. How much he longed to fall into the abyss with Johnny, as long as it lasted. He was being offered a chance to forget all of those painful, wasted years, and he resolved then that he would take it. He knew at this point that there was no turning back; there were no second chances in life, he would never be young again. This was the moment where he could look back and tell himself, that was where everything began for me. 

In bed that night, watching the rain pound against the windowpane, unable to sleep, he thought about how he had never imagined this happening. He had been attracted to Johnny from the day they had met; his clothes, his hair, the effete physique but tough and knowing attitude- and this attraction only grew as he got to know him and found that Johnny was indeed nothing like the football hooligans of the Manchester streets, but that he liked to read, was interested in philosophy, and spent many a night alone in a dark bedroom with only records for company. He had trained himself to try to avoid thinking of Johnny when he was alone in the dark with his hand under the sheets, but he would remember Johnny’s impish smile and the matching look in his eyes, the way his fingers moved so gracefully along the frets of his guitar, how his pale cheeks hollowed as he took a drag from his cigarette, and allow himself to get carried away occasionally. He had thought about and became aroused about the idea of Johnny without clothes, of Johnny with an erection, but he never once thought that it could actually happen. All of his fantasies had always been with the unattainable, the men or women he could never have, and that had been part of the thrill for him. He would not have to worry about not being a good kisser, or not knowing what his partner wanted, or what to do or say, because he knew in his heart that it would never happen. As he thought about it he realized he had no idea how he would manage to act if the time did come when he had found a partner and the two of them were mutually attracted and wanted to sleep together, much less someone like Johnny; who he felt hopelessly inadequate next to- besides the fact that he had no idea whether or not Johnny wanted him the way that he wanted Johnny. 

There was a sense of panic that rolled through him as he tried to get comfortable and fall asleep, but when he thought of the sweetness of Johnny’s kisses, still on his lips, he found himself able to drift off before the sky had begun to lighten outside of his window.


End file.
